


Burning Love Comes Once (In a Lifetime)

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s09e07 Bad Boys, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to <em>Bad Boys</em> (9x07).  Sam is glad that Dean opened up about his past a little, but he's pretty sure he's not going to be able to bring any of it up without sounding like a jealous girlfriend.  Well.  No more than usual, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Love Comes Once (In a Lifetime)

They’re only on the road for a little under thirty minutes before Dean speaks again. “Think we can make it straight on through? Should only be about a day or so.” Dean flicks his eyes over to Sam once, and then twice when he doesn’t receive an answer. “Bet we can make it in twenty, be in Kansas by tomorrow night. Whaddya say?” He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and nudges down on the accelerator as he speaks, most likely already assuming that Sam will defer to his choice, as is the norm. Sam can sleep just as well in the Impala as he can in any jankey motel bed, so if Dean plans on driving anyway, he usually couldn’t care less. But Sam’s mouth stays closed.

Sam isn’t ignoring him _per se_. Hell, usually by this point in the drive, Sam’s got most of his attention fixed out the window while Dean’s irritatingly deafening music underscores the view. Dean had picked Journey tonight, even going so far as to eject last night’s Metallica tape already in progress so that he could replace it. Sam is really trying not to read anything into it. He’s not even sure what he _would_ be reading into it if he had the inclination to do so, but it had somehow seemed meaningful in the moment, intentional even. Though he supposes it’s a moot point anyway, because Sam isn’t looking out the window, head in his thoughts while the Catskills’ limited scenery provides the backdrop to the day’s rumination. Sam is looking at his brother. The same way he has been since Dean started the car.

Dean fully turns his attention to Sam this time, head cocked, and probably attempting to figure out why Sam is refusing to answer him. One of these days, Sam is actually going to bring up Dean’s weirdo habit of refusing to keep his eyes on the road while driving, but for now his lips stay sealed. Dean is starting to look a little uncomfortable, and to be fair, Sam isn’t even entirely certain why he hasn’t spoken yet, but the awkwardness still isn’t enough to turn him away from his brother’s questioning look. Dean clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “Or we could stop. The _Golden Swan_ motel’s probably still got our room free if you wanna check back in.” He purposefully over-enunciates and waggles his eyebrows while repeating the motel’s name, exactly the same way he had the night before, when they first checked in.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

In fact, Dean had looked positively gleeful at the rather pitiful neon sign when they had first come across it. “Hey, check it out, Sammy. _Golden Swan_.” And there had been the stupid eyebrow waggle. For some reason, his mugging had seemed jarringly intentional in the moment, a little overdone, as if forced ribbing would smooth over all the jagged edges of the strange events that had been pinging Sam the wrong way for the last few weeks.

Dean’s grin had been a little too pasted-on for a while now, the lines around his eyes a little too deep. For the life of him, Sam couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on with his brother, and the extra whiskey tumblers he kept finding around the war room and at both of their bedside tables did nothing but fuel the niggling suspicion in the back of his mind. But none of Sam’s friends had suspiciously disappeared recently, and as far as he knew Dean still retained the deed to his own soul, so Sam had chalked it up to Dean unnecessarily worrying about his recovery from the trials. Which was stupid because Sam was fine. More than fine really, considering what he had gotten used to feeling like over the last few months. But Dean had been pretty insufferable then, too. Overprotective big brother instincts way too developed to do anything about at this point, so Sam had let it go. 

But Dean’s gaze had looked just a little too bright last night, the usual solid green of his irises almost glowing against the dark patina of grave dirt caked into his skin. It didn’t quite match up with the expression that Sam expected his brother to wear after a successful salt and burn, or protecting an old friend from a ghost. In a weird way, it almost seemed like he had _needed_ Sam to play along, and Sam was nothing if not putty in his stupid brother’s ridiculously capable hands. So he shouldered his bag and made sure to roll his eyes in the exact way that Dean expected him to. There were a few appropriate reactions to Dean’s mocking, and after spending a little under thirty years with the guy, Sam had learned which specific ones needed to be memorized. His body doled them out now by rote, matching up perfectly with whatever particular jibe Dean had decided to dish out in that moment.

The motel building itself was very squat and very beige. There had apparently been a half-hearted attempt at using color at some point, with red paint arbitrarily decorating a few of the building’s edges, but Sam figured that the motel’s biggest draw was the fact that it was ‘lake adjacent’. To be fair, the lake in question was admittedly beautiful, in a stark kind of way, but the otherwise deserted stretch of road and the creepily reaching clusters of dark trees probably made sure that they didn’t usually have to worry about exceeding capacity too often. The motel’s aforementioned sign had depicted what Sam assumed was supposed to be a ballerina dancing over some waves, but the patchily darkened neon made verification difficult. The ‘o’ had completely shorted out, but the ‘w’ was still making a valiant attempt to flicker once every five seconds or so. Sam had decided then and there that he hated it. Honestly though, it was probably due more to Dean’s unnatural attachment to it than any actual objection on Sam’s part. He still isn’t sure how much of his distaste for certain things is real and how much is some latent little brother instinct to automatically oppose whatever viewpoint Dean takes.

And speaking of his brother...Dean had seemed weirdly relieved at Sam’s appropriate adherence to the script, shutting the driver’s side door with an air of jocularity. “Whaddya think, princess? Maybe if you’re lucky, they’ll even have a handsome prince waiting to kiss you awake in the morning.” Sam had chuckled despite himself, as Dean had apparently moved out of relieved and straight into irritating, but the ivory shark grin he sported (real this time) tempered any annoyance Sam would usually have felt.

He pushed off from where he had been leaning against the Impala and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I dunno, man, wouldn’t want you to get jealous or anything.” He'd grinned, and then fell into step alongside his brother before risking a look at Dean’s reaction. “Should probably tell any potential princes that I’m taken.” 

Dean had glanced at him, but didn’t balk at the statement. Which was actually pretty nice. Sam generally tried not to push their relationship (though if Dean had heard him calling it a ‘relationship’ he’d have to deal with his brother’s spiteful mockery for a week at the very least), but the road was deserted enough at this time of night that Sam didn’t really count it as public. He tried to catch Dean’s expression again without obviously moving his head, which gave him a bit of a neck ache, but he managed to get a decent glimpse. Dean’s smile had softened, lips pressed together and no more teeth, but it looked genuine. More genuine than a lot of his brother’s smiles had been in the last couple weeks, so Sam figured he’d press his luck. “You know that’s the wrong ballet, right? And to be perfectly honest, I still find it a little creepy when you make any ballet references at all.”

Dean barked out a laugh and hip checked Sam as he passed, leading the way into the motel office. “Black Swan, Sammy. Swear to god, I’m gonna sit you down and make you watch it one day.” He lifted his eyebrows one last time before ducking through the office door. “ _Lesbians_.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“Earth. To. Sam!” Dean is snapping his fingers repeatedly, and loudly, two centimeters from Sam’s nose as Sam is forced back to the present. “The fuck are you doing? Answer me." 

Sam swats Dean’s hand away and runs a hand over his own face before replying. “Sorry, man. I was, uh—sorry, what?”

Dean gives him a look. Sam’s pretty sure it’s his ‘my brother is being a freaking idiot’ look, but he can’t be one hundred percent certain. Dean has a lot of looks. “You wanna keep driving or stop? This is like the third time I’ve asked. You keep staring at me with that dumb zoned-out gorilla face.” Apparently Sam’s reaction is less than pleasant because Dean backtracks pretty quickly. “In a sexy way.” Dean looks slightly chagrined, but it’s kind of endearing. “It’s a very sexy gorilla.”

Sam snorts and shifts up in his seat, which is a mistake, because he ends up banging his knee against the glove compartment. “Let’s stop. I mean, I can go for a while, but I don’t feel like driving the whole night.” He runs a hand through his hair to rest on the back of his head, then leans his elbow on the door below the passenger window. It gives him a pretty good vantage point to look at Dean from while giving his neck a rest, which still, irritatingly, hurts from the day before. He must have pulled a muscle or something while digging up the completely unnecessary grave last night. His chest chooses that moment to also start aching, as if to remind him that he can’t ever catch a break, and he massages his palm over the area that the ghost of Timmy’s mom had decided was a good spot for some mandatory telekinetic heart contractions. The good news is that it would probably be fine by tomorrow. Lately, almost all of his aches and pains seem to disappear pretty quickly after a couple nights’ sleep. Dean keeps claiming it’s his magic memory foam bed that’s doing the trick, but it seems to be working on Sam’s “stupid rock mattress” just as well. He figures that it’s probably just the bunker, a somewhat stable home base turning out to be pretty good for his immune system. 

Well, whatever the case may be, the more _important_ question is why every single supernatural ghost and ghoul that they come across seems to head straight for Sam. He can’t remember the last hunt he’d gone on that didn’t involve him slammed against a wall, or being strangled (always very popular), or getting knocked unconscious (starting to give strangulation a run for its money). They almost never go for Dean, which now that he thinks about it, is completely unfair. Maybe Sam’s just a bigger target. He flicks a glance over at his brother. Even though they had both been assaulted by Mommie Dearest, Dean doesn’t look like his chest is bothering him in the slightest. Sam bets his neck is just fine too. Jerk. Although, Dean does get his face beat on a lot. Which is a shame, because as far as faces go, it’s a pretty good one. He gives it a fond once-over before speaking up again. “Hey, can we do a different motel this time? The last one gave me the creeps.”

Dean nods at Sam’s request, but he’s already clearly gearing up for more tormenting. “What’s the matter, Sammy? What did those poor ballerinas ever do to you?” He reaches out to twist the volume on Steve Perry’s wailing to a slightly more human level. “You know the movie’s got that chick you like from the bad Star Wars in it.” 

Sam makes sure his tone is dryer than the Sahara. “Dean, her name is Natalie Portman and she’s an Oscar-winning actress.”

“Right! Exactly!” Dean waves his right hand around a couple times to punctuate his point. “ _From_ the sexy lesbian ballerina movie. I’m really not sure what your problem is here, man.” 

Sam gives up on his comfortable elbow perch in order to rub his hands over his eyes and sigh. Dramatically. “Oh my god, I’ll watch it. Just please shut up.” He glances through his fingers to see, more than hear, Dean’s low answering chuckle. His ridiculously handsome features are relaxed now, crow’s feet evident as his eyes crinkle with subdued mirth. All in all, he looks pretty pleased with himself. Normally, Sam would chalk it up to Dean thinking he’s won the conversation, but he’s been in a surprisingly good mood since speaking with his old girlfriend earlier. What’s-her-name. Robin.

Sam distractedly rubs his thumb along the stubble over his chin as he thinks about her. Dean’s reaction in the diner hadn’t been anything remotely like any of the other times that Sam’s seen him run into an old flame. Usually Dean is smooth, charismatic. He pulls out the old ‘ladies’ man’ shtick and, more often than not, grabs a repeat performance. Of course, it has been a while. Their whatever-the-fuck-it-is (Sam’s pretty sure that if he even _thinks_ the word ‘relationship’ while inside the Impala, Dean will be able to hear it through osmosis or something) has been going pretty strong since Amelia. And not to mention that Dean’s last one-night-stand did leave him with a monster daughter who tried to murder him in cold blood. But still, Dean had seemed…nervous when they ran into Robin. Hopeful even. Sam thought it was actually pretty hilarious at first, but their parting conversation had seemed…pleasant. Like, emotional-intimacy pleasant. Sam slants his eyes at his brother again, but Dean is just contentedly tapping his fingers along to the tape’s drum beat and quietly singing under his breath.

“Was she your first?” Sam’s words come as kind of a surprise even to himself, but he doesn’t rescind the question. And he’s moderately sure that his tone is even enough to not make him sound like a jealous girlfriend.

Dean looks at him for a while like he’s just dribbled on his shirt, then rolls his neck back and forth a couple of times. Yeah, Sam knew that driving all night was going to be a bad idea. “Was who my first what?”

“Robin. Was she your first—you know,” Sam wiggles his hand, but Dean just stares expectantly. “Sex.”

Dean’s expression is solid stone for a tenth of a second before smoothly rolling into what Sam likes to call his ‘cad’ face. “C’mon Sam, I was _sixteen_. Girls for miles before that. Light-years.” He practically leers. “You remember Carrie Fineman, right? Man, she used to do this trick with her tongue, swear to god—”

“Ugh. Stop.  _Please_.” He’s heard enough of Dean’s impossibly lurid stories to fill his entire life and them some. If he has to hear about Carrie Fineman’s goddamned magic tongue one more time, he’s going to break something. Most likely, one of his brother’s bones. Not to mention that the last time Dean had chosen to gift him with that particular story, Sam’s own tongue had been pretty thoroughly occupied. Rude, is what it was. And he’s pretty sure that the Carrie Fineman story was from when Dean was nineteen anyway. “It’s okay, Dean. I figured it out pretty much right away.” Sam has to reign in the impulse to smirk. It was a glaringly obvious bulls-eye. “I basically had it pegged from the moment you spoke to her in the diner.” Dean shuts his mouth with a barely audible click. He’s not saying any more, which Sam thinks might be a step forward, but he’s also still refusing to look directly at him, so probably not. “It’s just— We didn’t have to go right away. We could have stayed for a bit. If you wanted to.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at him. He speaks devastatingly slowly. “If I wanted to, then I would have stayed.”

“No, I know. It’s just, she seemed pretty, uh—” Sam quirks his lips into what he figures will substitute for the appropriate adjective. “She probably would have been down for whatever. You could have stayed.” Sam is hoping his face is reading completely accepting and perfectly disinterested right now, but who can be sure? He takes a brief pause, mostly for his own sake, before feeling level enough to start again. “Did you love her?”

“Jesus, Sam. What is this?” Dean looks absolutely uncomfortable now. He tugs at his ear, before awkwardly shifting again. “Are you seriously jealous of a girl that I banged almost twenty years ago? Let it go, man.” His face is distinctly pink now, but Sam can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or annoyance. His usually full lips are a thin line slashed across his jaw. 

“I’m not jealous, Dean. It was a serious question.” Sam _isn’t_ jealous. Dean can fuck whomever the fuck he wants. It’s not like they’re dating. Girls are outside of the rules of their… _thing_. Have been for years. Totally fair game. Sam’s only possible issue is that it seemed like Dean had maybe liked her. As a person. Which is fine, of course. It’s a good thing. Great, even. 

Dean sighs, but his shoulders are still rigid enough to break wood over. “No, Sam. I wasn’t in love with her.” He glances across the bench seat and something he sees in Sam’s face must amuse him because he twitches his lips. Sam would hesitate to call it a smile, but Dean extends his arm and runs his palm up Sam’s jeans until his hand comes to rest on his upper thigh, so he’s not going to start complaining. Dean rubs his thumb along the outside seam. “I knew her for like two months, Sammy. Not a whole lotta time to fall in love with someone.”

Sam should stop talking now. He really should. He’s in a good spot. There is absolutely no point in saying out loud what he’s thinking at the moment. No point whatsoever.  

“…It was long enough for Cassie.”

Dean’s hand tightens on Sam’s leg, almost a warning. “ _Sam_.” He elongates the syllable, and for some reason that makes it almost worse. His left hand is still on the steering wheel, but his knuckles are white.

Sam is millimeters away from asking the question that he really wants to ask. The one he hasn’t, ever. But he decides to let it go. Partially because he’d really prefer Dean not to be irreversibly annoyed with him tonight, and partially because he’s pretty sure that if he does bring up Lisa, Dean will actually hold true to his word and punch him in the face, even if it’s only on principle. So instead, he brings up his own hand and covers the one Dean’s got on his thigh. And if he laces their fingers together just a little bit, Dean doesn’t say anything. Sam’s pretty sure the answer’s safe anyway. Like, ninety-five percent sure.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

They drive for a few more hours before Dean finds an exit that he’s willing to pull off for in Ohio. They grab a room, Motel 6 this time, no neon dancers or creepy trees anywhere, and Sam’s got both their bags slumped together in the corner chair before Dean finishes closing the room’s door. Once he’s fully inside, Dean grins and hooks his fingers in Sam’s belt loops to pull him in for a lazy kiss. Sam happily goes along with, tilting his head down to gently slant his mouth against Dean’s. He brings a hand up to cradle the back of his brother’s head and pulls him in closer, sucking Dean’s bottom lip between both of his. Dean hums and pulls away with a soft peck, before brushing some barn dust from the front of Sam’s shirt. “You gonna shower?”

Sam grins and brings both of his hands up to frame Dean’s face, leaning in and gently licking across the seam of his mouth before Dean opens again to suck on Sam’s tongue. Sam groans and presses himself against Dean more fully, before flipping them around. “Yup.” He spins into the now-closer bathroom door, shutting it behind him in one fluid motion, before Dean has entirely closed his mouth.

“Oh, fuck you.” Sam’s pretty sure that Dean can hear his laughter even through the door.

After they’ve both showered (Sam made a valiant effort to leave some hot water for Dean, but his brother insisted on flushing the toilet and leaving the sink running on hot in revenge for earlier, so really it was completely Dean’s fault if his own shower was less than enjoyable), Sam tries to wait until his brother is decently dressed before bringing anything else up that could be considered _touchy_. He’s in a pair of old boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, while Dean has placed his bag on the edge of the bed and is rummaging through it one-handed, towel still wrapped around his waist. Sam knows that he’s already skated way too close to the edge of a seriously pissed-off Dean tonight, but he can’t quell the little feeling in the pit of his gut that keeps repeating all the old insecurities that Sam’s conscious mind usually does its best to squash. It was probably Dean’s earlier trip down memory lane that triggered it all, but Sam sort of feels like he’s an awkward teenager again too. He waits for Dean to find a pair of acceptably clean boxers and tug them on, before saying, “So you got along with that Timmy kid pretty well, huh?”

Dean looks up at him slightly apprehensively, like he’s sick of waiting for other shoes to drop. “Yeah…” Sam doesn’t continue, so Dean does. “He was a good kid in a crappy situation. Kinda feels like I keep coming across shit like that, you know?” He scrubs a hand through his damp hair and Sam follows a droplet as it travels down his neck and chest to finally soak into the waistband of his shorts. “Why?”

“Just something I’ve noticed. You really get along well with kids.” Sam uncrosses his arms and brings them down against his sides. “No big deal.”

“Yup.” Dean doesn’t appear to be convinced by Sam’s affected nonchalance, but he still moves out of sight in order to ball up his towel and toss it onto the bathroom floor. He warily glances at Sam again. “That it?” Sam shrugs and does his best to adopt an air of casual apathy. It seems to satisfy Dean enough for him to turn his back and head for the remote. 

“If you wanted it though, I’d understand.” 

Dean violently groans and turns back just as he’s reached the nightstand. “Seriously, Sam?” He tosses the remote back onto the wood with a solid thunk and holds out his arms, clearly frustrated. “Why are you being such a little bitch tonight? What the fuck is your problem now?”

Sam pushes himself off the wall and deliberately uses his extra three inches to loom. He hadn’t intended for the conversation to get heated, but he is taller, and sometimes it feels like it’s all he has. “Well excuse me, Dean, for figuring you might want to actually talk about something. Apparently, you spent a disturbingly influential stretch of time at that place and you never even told me.” Dean’s shoulders are set in a grim line and Sam is trying not to think about how ludicrous it is that they’re having this discussion in their underwear. “Just, what the hell, man? It seems like this place was good for you and there’s all these people that sound like they meant a lot, and you won’t even talk about it or tell me why you left in the first place.”

Dean throws his hands up in exasperation. “I did tell you!” 

“You didn’t tell me anything! You said it didn’t feel right, but I can’t see why it wouldn’t.” Sam brushes his hair back from his face. It’s not actually in his face, but it seemed like the thing to do and he really felt like he needed to move his hands. “I swear Dean, I’m not trying to make this a big thing, but it’s pretty obvious that you left because of me!” Dean’s face is immovable. Sam’s not sure if his brother is planning on affirming or denying his statement, or what the point would be of even trying either way. It’s no secret. It never has been. Sam sighs, and when he speaks again, his tone is subdued. “I just don’t want you to end up _resenting_ me for that. And if you won’t talk about anything in our—” He waves his wrist between them in a motion that he’s hoping conveys ‘long-term-having-sex-thing’ but probably reads more as ‘defective octopus’.

“Sam, if you say ‘relationship’ again, I’m gonna clock you.”

“God, this is exactly what I’m talking about! You have the emotional capacity of a mayfly.” Dean scrunches his face and looks highly affronted, and Sam really wishes it didn’t make him look so unfairly fuckable while he’s trying to make a point. It really doesn’t help his case when he can’t stop thinking about licking a line up the solid column of his brother’s throat. “I just don’t like this lying and shit, man. I thought we weren’t gonna do that anymore.”

Dean suddenly looks like every molecule of air has been sucked out of the room. His face drops so fast that Sam’s surprised he didn’t hear the sound of it crashing onto the floor. He manages to recover fairly quickly—Dean’s poker face is a practiced and useful tool in their line of work—but it doesn’t completely hide the fact that he still looks the tiniest bit gray around the edges. 

Sam slowly steps forward into his brother’s space. “Dean, are you okay? Look man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He lifts his hand to touch—something. Dean’s face or his chest maybe, more likely his arm was just going to awkwardly hang in the air between them. Luckily, Dean intercepts it, enfolding his rough hand around Sam’s wrist before it can embarrass anyone else in the room. Probably Sam, given how the evening has gone thus far.

Dean lifts Sam’s hand to his face and absent-mindedly kisses the center of his palm. It’s uncharacteristically sweet, and it’s making blood rush to places that Sam’s not sure are conducive to the tone that the conversation seems to be taking on. “You’re right, Sammy. No lies, yeah?” Dean makes a quiet, bitter noise deep in his throat, and Sam thinks just for a second that his brother’s expression looks haggard. Bleak. But he looks up and catches Sam’s eyes again, and Sam figures it must have been a trick of the light. “That’s what we said, right?” 

“Uh…right.” Dean’s still got Sam’s hand cradled in his, and Sam doesn’t want to do anything to pop this fragile soap bubble of a moment. Getting Dean to express casual affection is a little like corralling a rabid wolf into a cage and hoping you don’t get bit. “I just wanna make sure that you don’t regret…this. Us.” Dean smiles and squeezes Sam’s fingers before letting them drop. “I know it’s fucked up, like really fucking fucked up, and if you have the chance for a girl or kids…I just don’t want you to feel like I’m holding you back from that. Okay?” 

Dean smiles again, humorlessly this time. Bloodlessly. “I already tried that Sam, remember? Didn’t work out so well.”

Sam aches to push the subject, but the look in Dean’s eyes very clearly states that his promise still stands, and Sam is decently fond of his nose the way it is. Apparently the no-talking-about-it rule still only applies to him. He sighs and drops his gaze to somewhere around Dean’s knees. “Yeah, but that was my fault too.” 

Dean takes the extra step into Sam’s chest, encircles one arm around Sam’s broad back, pulls the neck of his shirt down with the other, and drops an open-mouthed kiss along the juncture of his collarbone. “No. It wasn’t.” He circles his tongue around the hollow of Sam’s throat before yanking the shirt over Sam’s head and leaving another open kiss over his Adam’s apple. “First off, that wasn’t you.” He mumbles something else into the curve of Sam’s shoulder that sounds a little like, “For the millionth fucking time,” but Sam can’t be sure. Dean ducks his head lower and brings his other hand back around to thumb over Sam’s nipple before gently biting at the skin over his tattoo. “Secondly, I would’ve left. Of course I would’ve left.” He drags both hands up to squeeze the sides of Sam’s ribs and stares directly into his eyes. “I always do.” 

Sam isn’t sure whether Dean means he would have left on his own, or only if Sam showed up to get him, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to ask. Instead, he takes advantage of the fact that Dean's hands have stopped moving by bringing his own up to grip tightly around his brother’s arms, his fingers almost encircling Dean’s biceps. He’s probably leaving bruises, but Dean rarely rolls his sleeves up past his elbows anyway. Sam lowers his head and nips along Dean’s jawline, their stubble catching as he squeezes tighter and nudges his chin up to nuzzle into the spot behind Dean’s ear. “You always leave because of me,” he growls, finally giving in to his repeating fantasy of the night and licking a slow stripe up the muscle of Dean’s neck. He isn’t damp from the shower anymore, but it still makes Sam’s dick twitch. He’ll have to be quicker next time. Or maybe they could just stop fighting so damn much. That would solve most of their problems actually. 

Dean’s letting out little, panting breaths, punctuated by the occasional deep groan as Sam bites at his neck, the same way he always does. Then he pulls his head down to catch Sam’s lips, dragging him into a deep kiss, and uses the grip he has on Sam’s waist to hitch their hips together. They both grunt as their dicks make contact—well, Dean’s grunt is more of a moan but Sam isn’t going to tell anybody—and Dean leaves a kiss on the side of Sam’s mouth. “I always leave _for_ you, you giant geek.” Dean snaps his hips up against Sam’s and they gasp, both undeniably hard now. “And if you tell anyone I’m saying any of this, I swear to god I’m gonna kick your ass.” 

Sam wrenches his hands down Dean’s sides and bites at his lower lip hard enough to reopen the split from their earlier hunt. “If I was gonna tell anyone anything about us fucking,” he emphasizes the word with a vicious thrust, “I’m pretty sure they’d be upset about the whole incest part.” Sam sweeps his tongue along his brother’s teeth and clutches at Dean’s ass like his life depends on it. “Not so much that the incest was _sweet_.”

Dean has to break apart to laugh, and Sam uses the space to extend one arm and place a hand squarely in the middle of his brother’s chest before pushing him straight back onto the bed behind him. Dean gets out a muttered, “Asshole,” that he doesn’t really mean before Sam’s on top of him again. Sam burns a trail of brutal kisses, more teeth and tongue than lips, down Dean’s chest and the centerline of his abdomen before resting at the waistline of his boxers. For a second, he considers just opening the fly of the tented material to pull Dean’s cock out, before changing his mind. He stretches himself back up to bite a rough kiss into Dean’s lips, then pulls his shorts off in an impressively smooth maneuver, if he does say so himself, before removing his own as well.

His brother catches him around the waist as he leans back down, and uses the fact that Sam’s only got one knee on the bed to flip them over. Now that they’re both naked and solidly in place, Dean slowly drags his cock along Sam's own as he pulls himself up to reach his face. The sound he lets out is painfully and pitifully embarrassing, and he’s banking on the fact that Dean is way too far gone by now to laugh at him. Dean’s irises are almost entirely black, low-lidded and darkened by arousal, and no matter how pretty Sam thinks Dean’s eyes are normally, this is always his favorite version. Dean drops a gentle kiss onto his temple. “You wanna know why I left Sonny’s farm, sweetheart?” He thrusts up again, the catch and slide setting off every one of Sam’s nerve-endings, and he manages to make a much manlier sound this time. Dean’s style of fucking is always gentler and tenderer than when Sam has the reins, and this seems more appropriate for now, for this conversation. 

Dean skates a thumb along Sam’s cheekbone. “I was sixteen and I was just about to go to a school dance. A fucking _school dance_ , Sammy.” He sits across Sam’s hips, wraps a calloused palm around both of their dicks and pulls, and Sam jerks his head back onto the mattress underneath him. “I had a sweet girl, and a decent bed for once, and a spot on a fucking sports team. Hell, I was actually getting respectable grades for the first time in my whole damn life.” They’re both panting now as Dean’s rhythm speeds up and Sam clutches at his brother’s strong thighs. “I had a whole normal life just lined up right in front of me. Mine for the taking. And I look out that goddamn window and you know what I see?” Sam slams his eyes shut as Dean tightens his fist, and a low whine escapes him. “I see a snot-nosed little kid, sitting in my dad’s car, playing with some stupid model plane, and wearing one of _my_ fucking shirts.” Sam rolls his hips against the bed and Dean lets out a low growl this time, his head thrown back as he rides out the build, but he manages to continue without missing a beat. “So I see this dumb kid’s ugly mug…and I immediately start to laugh. Because I know. I know that I don’t want this safe, normal life. I don’t want this happy, perfect, Leave-It-to-Fucking-Beaver life, if he’s not gonna be a part of it.” Sam's three stops past gone now and he rolls his head back against the pillow and lifts his shoulders off the bed and grits his teeth as he feels his orgasm coil. “I don’t want _anything_ without this dumb— _god,_ Sammy—this dumb kid.” Dean moans, long and low, and his eyes rove up every inch of Sam’s body before making it back to his face and holding his gaze. “…Because, god help me, I love the stupid son of a bitch.” Sam’s hips snap up against Dean’s as his orgasm violently rips through him. His dick jerks, and coats both of them as Dean keeps pumping him through the aftershocks. Dean’s fist tightens further and he jerks himself against Sam’s spent cock a few more times, before coming with a strangled cry and Sam’s name on his lips.

Breathing heavily, Dean haltingly lowers himself down on one elbow, before pulling his leg over, and falling back on the empty half of the bed. Well, it’s more of a third, really—they’re both pretty big guys and motel doubles aren’t the roomiest option in the world. Sam tucks up on his side to give his brother more room and pulls Dean into him, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. True to form, Dean half-heartedly wriggles around for the appropriate amount of time to prove that he hates cuddling before settling down. “See, I don’t even need a girl. Got an annoying handful of one right here.”

Sam chuckles into his brother’s shoulder. “Well, your girl’s sure got a hell of an impressive dick.” He punctuates the comment with a perfunctory pelvic thrust against Dean’s hip.

Dean laughs. Out loud. Thankfully, the earlier moment of gloom seems to have passed. Though knowing Dean’s tendency to brood, Sam has no idea how long the light-heartedness will last—or what exactly brought the weird mood on in the first place. Dean slings an arm over Sam’s shoulder and pulls him against his chest. “That she does, Sammy. That she does.”

Sam feels good, like they’re actually in a good place for once, so he can’t help but push his luck one more time. “You know, there is a perfectly good bed over there if you don’t want to cuddle.”

Dean falters for a second, probably trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for why he’s being forced to snuggle with his little brother under no threat of lost limb, then yawns. “My bag’s on that bed. Don’t wanna move it.” He pulls up the comforter to cover the both of them and settles in against Sam, rearranging him into a more comfortable sleeping companion.

It’s clear that Dean is fading fast after his orgasm, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but Sam makes sure to speak up before Dean’s out cold. “I could move the duffel, man. No problem.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Sam.” It’s barely even a sentence, Sam can only pick it up because he’s been fluent in Dean’s sleepy mumbles for most of his life. A few seconds later and Dean’s light snores are the only sounds permeating the continuous rattling noise of the cheap motel A/C.

Sam turns his head to place a kiss against Dean’s chest, and smiles into his brother’s skin.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Journey's "Stone in Love"


End file.
